


Clay Reaper

by keylore



Category: Close Your Eyes (Video Game)
Genre: Alien Biology, Anal Sex, Blood, Bodily Fluids, Consensual Mutilation, Disembowelment, Dismemberment, Emetophilia, Guro, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutilation, Vomiting, dubcon, wound fingering, wound fisting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 01:37:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17715602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keylore/pseuds/keylore
Summary: [Set during Ending 3: Reaper] Marshmallow Monk’s encounter with his reaper doesn’t go the way he expected it to.





	Clay Reaper

This was bad. Really, really bad. He had to find a way out, and fast.

That was easier said than done, considering the death trap he had just holed himself in. Marshmallow Monk’s eyes darted around the bathroom, the hood ornament jingling with each frantic turn of his head, gaze lingering on each object for a moment to consider whether they’d be of use to him. The bare room had very little to offer: just a dusty mirror, and a worn out sink and bathtub with no running water. Not good at all. He glanced at the door behind him, beads of sweat dotting his temple. Would he still have time to look for an alternate route of escape? There hadn’t been any other doors in sight when he had rushed in, but maybe he could take a second, quick look.

Maybe not. After all, that thing was still out there, and although it defied all logic, he was sure it was looking for him. He had shot the green man square in the forehead, hoping it’d put an end to this nightmare. Marshmallow shuddered at the memory of what came after. The Host had faltered, but only for a brief moment before straightening himself, breaking into a mad laughter that became stronger in volume by each passing second. Blood was spurting out of the frayed hole in his head, the thick, red droplets hitting the floor with a wet splot. Marshmallow wasn’t able see the man’s eyes - he never had, no matter how close he got - but he knew the shot man had his stare fixed on him.

Marshmallow’s hands had shook, hard, and he had let the gun drop onto the floor with a heavy thud. Enough. No more, no more, no more...!

He had ran past the figure still lost in crazed laughter, refusing to have anything else to do with him. Or maybe ’it’ was a better way to describe that inhuman monstrosity. His feet had taken him to a long corridor, veiled in shadows like the rest of the mansion, bare from all furniture and doors. Come on, there had to be something...! But ah, was that a door at the end of the hallway? He had picked up the pace as the Host’s laughter still rang in his ears. 

Marshmallow could have sworn he had heard uneven steps behind him as he had wrenched the door open, entering what he had hoped to be a door to safety.

That’s how he had got stuck here in the dark bathroom.

————

”...”

Marsmallow snuck to the door, pressing his ear against it to listen to the world outside, eyes shut to focus. The beating of his own heart was almost deafening, but despite it he was able to pick up the sound of... something in the hallway. He worried his pale lower lip, his mind’s eye trying to envision the source of the noise. The footsteps were there again, coupled with a heavy thud against the walls and floors every now and then - like the person was forced to support themself against any surface available. Marshmallow pulled away, breaking out in cold sweat. He - it - was here. It was coming his way, and what was worse, Monk had no idea what the entity had in store for him. He double-checked, then triple-checked the lock on the door. It’s... not able to force its way inside, right? Considering its state, maybe not, but considering the unpredictable nature of the world he was stuck in, how his surroundings would shift and twist around him without any—

The lock in his hand blinked out of existence for a second. He let go of it in a flash, as if it had scalded him.

Then the door vanished, flooding the room with hot and heavy air from the hallway, mixed with the stench of blood and something putrid.

What came after were a long pair of legs standing in the doorway, clad in green, stained pinstripe pants.

Marshmallow’s eyes trailed up the limbs to look at their owner, and he immediately regretted the action.

It was him - it - him, but disfigured, a hideous shadow of his former self. The green skin had been completely devoured by a marred red mass, with big, gaping holes torn haphazardly into the clothes and flesh. Some of the ragged meat tunnels went all the way through, allowing the small murderer to get a glimpse of the hallway behind the Host. The rest of the cavities were less deep, exposing only glistening, fluid-leaking musculature. The pinstripe clothing was filthy and wet with blood and... he wasn’t sure what else. Few spots on the jacket were turning darker faster than the others; the hole situation must’ve been worse where the textile hadn’t broken yet. 

Marshmallow’s eyes flickered up to meet the entity’s face. God, could you even call it that at this point? What once held a simultaneously eerie and charming crescent shaped grin of perfect teeth was just, well, gone. The surface of the face had collapsed in on itself, leaving behind the biggest hole of them all, filled with twitching crimson mush. Had the front of the skull caved in too? He couldn’t tell; there were no fragments of white among the mass. But what he was able to tell, though, was that the man was looking at him. Staring. The eyes were gone, but it still felt like they were burrowing into him. Looking deep, seeing beyond the surface, like his very being was an open book for the tall man to read. A chill went down Marshmallow’s spine, forming a cold, heavy lump in his stomach. 

He grew more uncomfortable by each passing second; something was changing about the way he was being inspected. The curious aspect of the stare was giving way to something new, something worse. It was an emotion that Marshmallow had felt back then during his morbid deeds: overwhelming hunger, but not for anything edible. A hunger that could only be sated in ways that resulted in equally harsh punishments. But the Host’s variety of the said emotion went beyond his; Marshmallow was being sized up like he was defenceless prey under the gaze of a predator calculating the moves of his ’meal’. This was it, wasn’t it? This was how he was going to die, in a dirty old bathroom, by the hands of what was essentially a walking corpse. A corpse that had been standing in place for the entire duration of Monk’s staring, only gently swaying left and right. 

Marshmallow Monk hadn’t thought much about figures associated with afterlife, but he had a strong feeling that the person before him was his reaper, here to whisk him away to Hell. This reaper just happened to be dressed up as a twisted game show host, complete with the personality.

Marshmallow Monk swallowed.

It was as if the sound was a cue for the Host to move. With a loud, distorted bark of laughter he lunged forward with his mangled hand outstretched. He grabbed the surprised Monk by the front of the robe, effortlessly tugging the smaller being along as he stumbled towards the other end of the bathroom. With a wheeze akin to harsh radio static, he pushed Marshmallow down by the head, forcing Monk to sit against the wall, his hands leaving behind bloody prints.

”You... did... it,” the Host lowered himself onto Marshmallow, legs straddling him, effectively pinning him down with his mass. Had the situation been a different one, Marshmallow would’ve found the way the Host had to position his long limbs to keep him in place amusing. Thin crimson fingers traversed the space between Monk’s forehead and chin with slow, almost tender strokes. Marshmallow scrunched his eyes shut, expecting the worst.

”You did it, you did it, you did it, you did it...!” the Host chanted as his hands began to roam all over Marshmallow Monk. Tugging, pulling, kneading, rubbing at everything that fell in his line of sight. Marshmallow cracked one eye open, cautiously peeking at the Host’s actions. What was he doing? Was this another one of the many mind games the Host was so fond of? The man tugged Monk’s hood down by the ornament at the end, exposing his bare head and the few locks of white hair at the front. Marshmallow was now watching the Host with both eyes open, growing more baffled. The Host toyed with tufts of Monk’s hair, tender as he curled them around his fingers, getting them snagged on his flesh. With a chuckle, he pulled his hand free, leaving blood and chunky residue behind. The murderer grimaced at the warm wetness on his forehead. 

”I knew you could do it, I knew, I knewww~” the Host slurred. Marshmallow Monk had no idea how he was still capable of speech, nor did he care - he was more concerned about his fate. 

The hands continued roaming, now slipping under the robe, pressing against the bare skin there, fingers sinking into the soft flesh to massage tiny circles into his chest. A foreign heat rose to Marshmallow’s cheeks. This was reaching surreal levels. The kind of levels that reminded him of those... love letters, if one could call them that. What was he...?

The Host’s fingers twitched, followed by a chunk of flesh sliding down his face, landing on Monk’s chest with a soft splut. Marshmallow made a face, one that was quickly replaced by confusion when the fingers beneath his robe started heating up. It was tolerable at first, but the heat was climbing up faster and faster. The Host retracted his hands with a low groan. The warmth was rolling off him, so hot, but not hot enough to burn. The Host’s skin warped, tearing open a new gash on the hand by itself, and he looked at Marshmallow through the new ’peephole’. Had he still possessed his mouth, he would have probably given Monk a mischievous grin.

”See~? You’re doing this, you’re doing this to me. Won’t you keep on doing it? More and more.... come on~”

The Host took Marshmallow’s tinier hands into his, placing them onto the front of his pinstripe jacket. The heat was so intense, even through the clothes. ”Give me more. Give in, pal.”

Should he follow the order? Maybe. In best-case scenario, it would prolong his life. Marshmallow did as he was told, fists closing around the jacket. What was he supposed to do?

He gave the piece of clothing a little tug.

The material tore to shreds in his hold, practically disintegrating in his hands. Not a single particle was left behind. It was a weak tug, so how...? Ah, well. Better not question it. He shook his head, grabbing onto the rest of the jacket to give it the same treatment. Is this what the ’reaper’ wanted from him? He assumed so, based on the Host’s urging coos. And so he pulled, harder this time, tearing off more of the cloth, each piece vanishing into thin air like it had never existed in the first place.

For half a minute the only sound audible was the noise of clothing being ripped apart, interspersed with the Host’s steadily growing panting. It felt... enjoyable. He had to keep on tearing. With the last of the jacket gone, he kept on going. He needed more. Tiny fingers dug into each layer of clothing he unearthed, giving the vest and dress shirt the same treatment as the jacket. Marshmallow was so lost in the act, he barely paid mind to the fact his hands were soaked with blood and fluids. Soon, much to his dismay, he had to stop; he had rendered the disfigured man topless. He sat back, inspecting the ’prize’ he had brought into view.

Red, glistening meatscape draped over a frame that he could tell was well-toned before the man starting falling apart. The collection of the unnatural, gaping maws of leaking flesh were more visible now, with numerous more that had been hidden beneath the clothes. Marshmallow’s curiosity led him to take a closer look. Only few of the sizable holes went all the way from front to back. Most exposed the Host’s inner workings for him to see, organs, musculature, all pulsing, almost in a beckoning way. The rise and fall of the chest, with a sliver of ribcage peeking out of a hole, was very prominent. Marshmallow had no idea what he was getting into, but the Host was very clearly excited. 

Besides the cavities, there was a noticeable detail that affected Monk just by being there: the warmth. That damned warmth radiating off the collapsing body. Even worse, the heat was more intense now thanks to being freed from the confines of clothing. The Host was almost steaming, enveloping Marshmallow in the same warmth. It made Monk sweat, it made him take in lungfuls of hot air. He should’ve been repulsed, really. But the Host was so warm, and coupled with the fact that he had all his weight placed onto Monk’s lap, mostly on a particular spot, well....

It made something primitive rear its head deep inside of him, slipping into his confused thoughts with ease, bringing with it ideas that he should’ve ignored.

But the flesh was weak; blood was rushing down due to the stimulation and his vivid imagination. Marshmallow wanted to blame the Host for it - surely the heat was infecting him with the same madness that made the entity act off. His current... ’state’ didn’t go unnoticed by the other man. How could it? After all, his cock was pressing against the Host.

”You’re finally accepting it, aren’t you? Don’t be shy, we’re friends,” the Host pressed down, drawing a surprised squeak from Monk. ”There’s no need to hide it... I know what... you... are.”

With a short burst of noise akin to a tv test pattern sound, he resumed his administrations. Hands groped and pulled on Marshmallow, but never to the point where bruises would be left behind. The small murderer bit on his lower lip, face heating up from the attention. A-Ah...! The cruel man was thrusting his hips against Monk’s, over and over again, putting pressure on his cock, making him twitch and his nerves tingle. A moan slipped past his lips; he’d never been this hard before. And to think what was making him like that...

He should’ve felt shame and disgust, but his instincts drove him to thrust back, desperate, needing more. You’re sick. He settled on a steady pace. Tiny fingers gripped onto Host’s arms, slippery from the fluids. The faceless man whispered words of encouragement. Not that he needed any to keep on going. Splurt. The Host’s holes were leaking all over him, soaking through, staining the robe. Twitching fingertips traced the ridges of the rope around his neck. You’re disgusting. Monk was in a haze; it took him a while to notice the Host’s hardness pressing against his own. And it felt good, too good, and the Host must’ve felt it as well, judging by how ragged his breathing was getting. 

The Host went still. Marshmallow let out a soft whine.

”How about we take it further? Come in,” the Host’s hands rested on either side of a cavity below his left lung, pulling the skin taut to widen the hole, the flesh strings on the edges threatening to snap. Strange organs pulsed further down the hole in a leisure manner, like they were unaware of the Host’s intentions. ”Be my guest.”

Should he? He wasn’t sure, maybe he shouldn’t. Marshmallow considered the drooling waist maw, then his own hard state. The warmth and arousal meddled with his rational thought process - he wanted the Host to continue with the touching. But what if it was a trap? Maybe there were teeth in there, ready to sink in the moment he slipped a hand inside. Maybe his guts had corrosive properties. Maybe...

”Well~? Don’t keep me—” the rest of the sentence died in the Host’s throat as his head suddenly drooped, chin hitting chest. The hands were frozen in place. Knuckles pale pink. There was a cough, then two. The third one sent blood spilling down the edge of the face hole.

”...”

It was over in a few seconds. The Host whipped his head back up. ”...Waiting,” he finished his sentence, as if someone had hit the resume button.

Besides fear and arousal, there was also hope. Was the man pinning him down close to hitting his limit? If that was the case, he supposed it was worth it to play along for now. Marshmallow nodded to himself. It was a chance to have another go at escaping. At least, that’s what he wished.

...And he wanted more of whatever the Host was doing to him.

Putting aside fears of being injured, he traced the frayed edges of the hole with his thumb. Slick and spongy. He hooked a finger under the strings, stroking them up and down with squeaks accompanying each slide. Sort of like rubber. Marshmallow pulled on them, the strain ripping gaps into the strung out matter before he let go. The Host hummed, seemingly content. Did he derive pleasure from this? Monk didn’t want to think too much about it.

A quick glance at his hand and then the wound. Could be a tight fit. One by one, his fingers curled into a tense fist, pressing against the hole. Here it goes. He started applying force. Knuckles rubbed and pushed at the corners, the strings there snapping and getting their loose ends shoved inside. You’re messed up. The squelching of the meat grew stronger as he pushed against the raised ridges of the wound. The Host was mumbling something, his arms slack at his sides, shaking, but it was too incohorent for Marshmallow to understand. Clear fluids and red goop were leaking past his fist. Splurt. Just a little more.

It was at that moment the cavity ceased resisting. His fist plunged inside, thumbnail scraping the walls of the hole on the way in. The motion was so sudden and the insides so slippery - his wrist followed, and then he was elbow deep, sleeve and all. He didn’t mean to...! 

”...?”

The feeling was so foreign. Hot mass enveloped his arm, shifting in density without rhyme or reason. He curled his fingers, and the action was met with some force - like moving in thick jelly. He did it again, but nothing held him back this time. It was as if the Host’s body followed its own rules. Dense. Thin. Back to dense. Marshmallow didn’t have to be a doctor to tell it wasn’t normal. He was too enthralled by it all. There was no space for revulsion in his ’expedition’. Well, maybe he’d be a little disgusted if he saw his own hand inside. Wait. He was able to see inside, but - he took a quick peek at the holes near the entrance point - Monk wasn’t able to see where he was. Maybe he should be relieved about that. Marshmallow spread his tiny fingers, the goop parting between them. It was like prodding porridge. Flesh porridge spiced with organs and bones. Those said bones had a habit of... hm. How’d he explain it? One minute they were there, the next, poof. Gone. Then back again. 

The weird shifting didn’t affect the Host’s posture. Was it happening because the body was falling apart? He couldn’t tell. The sleeve absorbed fluids as he shifted his limb around. Soaked material clung to skin. Ugh. He steadied himself with his other hand, still gripping onto Host’s arm. Maybe he could pull the sleeve out.

The heartbeat he was able to feel through the mass vanished.

He glanced up.

The Host’s head was lolling back, weak, reminding Monk of a limp rag doll. The sound of crackling static poured out of the face crater, followed by tensing shoulders and violent gurgling. Suddenly, he snapped his head down, heaving. The motion jostled Monk’s arm, bursting something delicate inside the Host. Marshmallow cringed - what was that? Whatever it was, it had coated his hand in a film of viscous sludge. There was no time to think; the Host retched, hard.

Marshmallow opened his mouth, about to plead him not to do it.

Too late. The Host threw up exactly at that moment. A batch of golden brown goop splattered against Monk’s face, spilling and splashing all over, hanging off his chin in thick, glistening ropes. It was everywhere: on his face, robe, and still dripping out of the Host’s face. He got a generous mouthful of it too; the taste was rich and sweet. Almost sickeningly so. Common sense urged him to spit it out, but he couldn’t; a more sentimental side made him slosh it around in his mouth, his tongue glazed with sugar. There was familiarity to the flavor. And the smell too. Wasn’t it... Marshmallow smacked his lips. Of course. It’d been part of many of his breakfasts before... before, well.

It was maple syrup. The exact kind that the Girl used to pour over the stacks of pancakes he was served, topped with a pat of butter. He missed it. The cozy talks at the table as light summer breeze toyed with the curtains. The stories she told. That sad smile of hers, her warm embraces...

”...”

He swallowed. The syrup felt heavy in his throat, the sweetness burning on the way down. It brought him some comfort in the middle of this awful situation. His stomach growled. God. That must’ve been the first thing he had eaten since... hmm. He had no clear recollection. Marshmallow’s tongue darted out, licking his lips clean from the sugary treat. He wanted more of it, even though he knew where it had came from. For a moment he considered wiping his face with his hands and then lapping up the syrup. But he had one hand still stuffed in the Host’s (rather nice and snug) insides, and the other one was grasping the man’s leaking arm. Well, maybe...

He blinked, and the world had shifted again in the second his eyes were closed.

Vanished. Gone. There was no trace of the syrup anywhere. Not on the Host. Not on his own clothes; just blood and sticky fluids. His face was clean. He couldn’t taste it anymore, couldn’t smell it anymore. Like it had never existed in the first place.

The heartbeat returned, thrumming against his arm.

”Oh my, how embarrassing,” the Host’s hand rested against the spot where his mouth should’ve been. ”But you didn’t seem to—” his head lolled to the side for a moment before snapping back up, ”mind it at all. So tell me, what did you think. It. Was?” 

What was it...? Maple syrup, of course. Right. He was sure of it.

The laughter that tore out of the Host’s throat was like sharp bursts of high-pitched, stuttering static. ”Maple syrup? Now, why would that be...” he shook his head, giving Monk an amused sigh. ”Oh, you are a funny one. But... we’re getting sidetracked.”

The mouth of the wound Marshmallow Monk was elbow deep in clamped down. The mass inside pulsated, twisting around the arm, tying together fingers like a hungry snake. The pressure felt threatening. Suffocating.

”Come on, pull out. You can do that for me, right~?” the Host drew out the last word, his tone dropping inhumanly low.

Pull out? With all of... all of that his arm was wrapped up in? That didn’t seem like a good idea. But, on the other hand, if that would speed up the Host’s demise, then sure, fine. He was in.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Marshmallow steadied himself. He began tugging his hand back, the tight ring of flesh around him hindering the process. The Host shuddered. Little by little, Monk managed to work the gut juice and blood-soaked arm out. The wet sleeve had a foreign, sweet smell to it; he couldnt’t decide if it was good or bad. Each pull peeled more of the intestines draped firm around him upwards, until they had nothing left to cling onto but the wrist and hand. They were coiled up so tight, it felt like they were cutting off the blood circulation. His skin tingled. 

The wrist was free, but the opening of the hole refused to budge anymore. He wrenched his hand harder against the stubborn entrance, the knot of intestines smashing it as well. The edges of the wound were cracking and splitting, drooling blood in thin lines. Almost there. The Host let out a small moan, grabbing onto Monk’s robe.

Shlup. The corners of the hole were being forced up from the inside by Marshmallow’s shoving, spitting out blood as they bended. Come on, come on...! He was almost free. Just one more hard pull, and...

Splurt. The split edges of the wound blossomed outwards like petals of a flesh flower, and out came Monk’s hand with a spray of blood, followed by the long cords of entrails and flesh. Finally. The pressure on his hand loosened as the organic bundle around it twitched, their hold growing weak, dropping onto his lap with obscene wet splorts. He blinked. Glistening, twitching viscera coated him, leaking clear fluid and blood. What was all this? Sure, he could make out a few organs vital to the human body, but the rest of it... he had no idea. The burst, pale green sac on the side of the mess must’ve been what he had hit earlier. What was it? He couldn’t tell. And the other ones? Curls of bumpy guts, lumps with teeth and multiple milky, clouded eyes resting in sockets of a large, veiny organ. 

He scrunched his nose. It was all warm too. Heavy. Disgusting. Marshmallow tried wiping his hand clean on his already dirtied robe; it was only a partial success. Blood and unknown gunk was caked on his fingers.

”Good boy,” the Host was trembling as his hands cupped the sides of Monk’s face, prompting the little murderer to let go of his arm. He leaned in close, and although it shouldn’t have been possible, his breath tickled Monk. The motion of his thumbs was slow as they rubbed the soft skin. ”Good boy, good boy, good boy, good boy...!” the Host’s voice warped by each word until it was just garbled static. It wasn’t pleasing to the ears.

He cleared his throat. A wide slit tore itself over his Adam’s apple. ”Again. You can do it again. You want to, right?” the voice was back to normal. 

Marshmallow glanced at the ruined hole the best he could with the Host’s hands holding his face in place. It was still spewing blood all over the two through the bent pieces of skin. There? He had to go back in there? He’d rather—

Right at that moment the Host let go of him, drawing a hand back, and—

Splat—! He slapped the pile of his own innards off Marshmallow’s lap, sending them flying and splattering across the floor with a wet splort, fluids spilling into the grooves between tiles. Marshmallow couldn’t help but stare at the mess.

”Hey.”

The Host gave Marshmallow’s nose a playful tap, returning his attention to him. The Host held his hands up, fingers spread open like a magician about to wow an audience. He slid his hands down, one coming to rest on Monk’s shoulder as the other continued further. Marshmallow gulped, following the hand’s teasingly slow descent. Below the chest, below the sash, right at... oh. Long fingers curled around the neglected erection Monk had forgotten about, stroking him through the robe, bringing him back to full hardness. Oh, yes. He wouldn’t object to more of that.

”See? I can make it worthwhile...” the Host gave Marshmallow a little squeeze, ”...in exchange for a teeny... tiny... task.”

His face was so flushed, pleasure tainting his mind, throwing a monkey wrench with the Host’s name on it right into his rational thought process. He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, absolutely not. But, it felt good, he’d never been touched like it. God. Stop being so indecisive. It counted as a way to stall for time, didn’t it? A good way, too - if luck was on his side, the Host would keel over and die in the middle of it. He wouldn’t need to feel guilty about particating in it if it meant his survival. Right?

”...”

He poked at the bleeding skin petals of the hole (so squishy), wondering how to proceed. His eyes flickered up to meet the Host’s mangled excuse for a face, silently waiting for guidance.

”Oh, I’m not asking for much,” a fingertip played with the tip of his cock, precum seeping through robe, drawing an excited sigh from Monk. ”Just in,” he smeared the cum around, ”and out. Repeat. Should be simple enough for you~”

Basically, what the Host’s request boiled down to, without any embellish or intricate detail, was simply this: ’Fuck my gaping wound with your hand.’

Things have been weirder. He’d witnessed sights that went beyond normal human comprehension. He’d been face to face with ghosts. And right now, he was stuck under someone that should be dead, someone whose insides he’d been elbow deep stuck in, someone who was stroking him off right after slapping their own innards around.

He could handle it.

The unknown clear liquid pouring out of the Host should be enough to slick him up, he figured as he swirled his fingers around in it. The substance squeaked between his digits with each rub. That should do it. With his hand balled into a tight fist, he got down to work, ready for another round with a stubborn h-

Shlip.

He slid back into the familiar warmth and viscera with ease, the petals on the wound framing his wrist like a macabre bracelet. Huh. He couldn’t complain; it meant less work for him.

The Host drew a sharp intake or breath, his each exhale now tinted with the faintest hint of static. ”T-that’s it~”

There was more effort put into the flicks of the Host’s wrist, hand gliding up and down Marshmallow’s length, making Monk shudder and writhe a little. He liked it, really, but he had to admit that his body was so sensitive to this sort of activity, the kind that he hadn’t really explored much. He was eager for more, so he twisted his hand around in the cavity, the bottom of his palm rubbing the edges from the inside. The Host’s stroking got more lazy; a hint for him to pick up the pace. 

So he withdrew his hand, glistening from various liquids, the fragmented skin of the hole curling around him like it had a mind of its own. When only the tips of his fingers remained around the rim, he plunged back in, rougher this time, the move forcing chunks of the split skin inside. The hole contracted around him for a second before easing its hold as another tunnel bore itself into the mangled body, just a little distance away from the wound he was in.

Something was crackling under Marshmallow’s head, on the shoulder that the Host’s fingers had clung onto. Something hot. What was that...? He paused, as did the Host’s touching.

He ducked his head to take a look.

His hand. The Host’s hand was the source of the noise, skin bubbling in the same manner as the surface of a boiling pot, humid and warm. The skin was... melting. Liquefied flesh and fat was dripping off the fingers in thick drops, dirtying the robe that was already in a sorry state, the warmth aiding in drying the mess on him. It reminded Marshmallow of candle wax. The fingers - what were left of them - twitched. He shouldn’t be watching anymore, but there was a detail that made him curious. The bones. He hadn’t seen a peek of white; the melting flesh wasn’t revealing anything underneath it. Nothing. Not even when the fingers had dissolved themselves up to the knuckles.

The Host rubbed Marshmallow’s shoulder with the leftovers (palm and index finger), smushing up crumbs of fleshy bits on him. The bubbling was steadily eating its way to the wrist.

Marshmallow Monk looked between the hand and the Host.

”That’s your doing, so take responsibility~”

Taking one last glance at the melting hand, he turned back to his task at hand. The drag of his retreating hand against the Host’s inner walls was slow, almost teasing, knuckles rubbing and digging into flesh. The Host started moving again, thumb stroking him just below the tip, tracing down the length. Marshmallow bit back a content sigh. The speed the little murderer settled onto was a steady one, with surprises tossed in between every few thrusts. Deep ones that poked against organs and the occasional bones - The Host seemed to like those ones, based on the static-y breaths rising in volume and the arching of his back. Shallow presses that lingered right at the opening. Fingers following the ups and downs of the meat petals, (literally) melting under his touch. Something about the sight made him throb in the Host’s hand. 

In and out, his hand kept it up, each slide forward and back forcing lewd, wet noises out of the wound. Whenever he managed to angle it just right, right into the certain spot in the mush, fingers prodding right into certain organs, it made the Host freeze in place, silent. Monk would continue working his hand into the hole until the Host snapped out of it, regaining mobility with a soft gasp. Reducing the man to a state like that made him feel confident. He had the upper hand in this situation. At least, that’s how he preferred to think.

The Host stopped and held up the lone finger on his melted hand. A sign to pause. He let go of Marshmallow.

”If I may...” he snapped the fingers of his intact hand - the sound echoed in the bathroom.

Green vanished from the edge of Marshmallow’s vision, prompting him to look down.

Heat rushed back to his face at full force the second his eyes met with the sight.

There wasn’t an article of clothing left on the Host, exposing his full form to Marshmallow Monk; it was continuation to the maimed meatscape of his upper body. His eyes traced the long form of the Host’s legs - don’t look over there - as red and torn as the rest of him, the musculature already in the process of breaking down. Soaked holes had eaten their way into his lower half. Marshmallow tilted his head from side to side - don’t look down - to assess the situation behind. The feet were, well, mostly in a solid shape, but the toes were nothing but pulp garnished with nails. He straightened himself. Then there was... the, well, the particular piece of anatomy he’d been trying to avert his eyes from. The Host’s cock matched the rest of him, long and consumed by the warped red flesh, sans holes. He couldn’t look away now that he was actually staring at it. His free hand reached out, about to trail a finger up the hard length, to touch the green-hued precum forming at—-

The Host gave his hand a light push. ”Nuh-uh, you’ve got...” the index finger fell off and continued to melt on Monk, ”...something else to do, right?”

He did, but he was also curious about the...

About... what was he doing? 

The man shifted around to grab the hem of Marshmallow’s robe and yanked it up in a casual manner, revealing his pure white cock, twitching in response to being hit by the cool air.

Marshmallow squeaked and tried to tug the cloth back down, but the Host’s grip on it remained firm, refusing to budge. Please...! Being stroked through the robe was one thing, but being seen like this was another. A whole big another that made his cheeks burn, and he wasn’t even sure why. He was wrist deep in the Host’s warm and pulsating guts, but somehow being exposed to the other man felt like it was more intimate. Made him feel more vulnerable.

...And he supposed being touched without anything in the way would feel much better.

Marshmallow followed the Host’s actions with bated breath. The melting entity pressed his palm flat against the head of Monk’s cock, twirling it around. There was a mischievous tone to the Host’s hum. ”I wonder if I could...~”

The Host began forcing his palm down right on Monk, pushing him right into the gaping hole going through his hand, strings of flesh at the ends tearing as the tip was about to emerge through the back of hand, so tight and warm and...

Marshmallow let out a choked moan. The Host immediately yanked his hand away. ”Just kidding! I— Don’t look so disappointed, I’ve got something better in store, it’s called...”

He paused. ”It’s...” he scratched at his chin, thoughtful. ”Oh my, you’re making me forget words. Ah, well. I’ll just show you.”

”Watch closely now,” the Host’s hand reached down, taking its time, only to suddenly pause midair. ”...Are you watching?”

Marshmallow’s mouth pulled into the tiniest of frowns. Of course he was watching. Why wouldn’t he? He nodded at the Host, then motioned downwards, punctuating the gesture with a frustrated noise. Just get on with it. 

”Good, I was making sure since, y’know, it’s hard to say where you’re looking with those eyes of yours,” with a thumb behind the head of his cock, the rest of the Host’s fingers reached out to effortlessly take Marshmallow into the same grip, their lengths pressed together tight. O-oh. This was...

The Host cleared his throat to catch Monk’s attention. ”Do your part.”

Ah. Right. Marshmallow slid out of the cavity, wrist smeared with coagulated gunk that he shoved right back to where it came from with the next push in. The steady thrumming of the Host’s heartbeat echoeing through the mass faltered for a second, and the Host sighed, really drawing out the exhale. The tall man began murmuring something under his breath, voice low and jumbled, and although Marshmallow had no idea what he was saying, it must’ve been positive based on the tone. 

His hand fell onto a nice, even pace, putting a bit more force behind his thrusts this time. Twisting his wrist. Grabbing onto dense masses of muscle and intestines. Sinking his fingers into them. He wasn’t rupturing or tearing a thing. Yet. The sickening (but pleasing) sound of the act was audible through many of the open holes. 

The Host squeezed at their cocks and began to move, his gnarled dick rubbing against Marshmallow’s with each snap of his hips, speed matching Monk’s. There was no need for lube; whatever it was that was spilling from the pores of the hand oiled up the action. Having the Host force himself against him over and over again, so hot and thick, feeling his pulse, was a sensation that was hard to decipher. It simultaneously excited him and weirded him out. 

His body couldn’t decide whether it should try pulling away from the touch or participating in it. It was confusing. He tried sorting it all out as he fingered the holes of yet another alien organ inside Host before pulling out; it latched onto his fingers, needy, so he continued. 

It was weird how used he was getting to the inner workings.

He curled his finger in the organ - the Host moaned openly - and thought about it. No, he couldn’t really think about it; his body seemed like it was making the decision before the mind. The body grew more tolerant to the touches. It pleaded him to move with the Host’s strokes, just having a hand in the man’s guts wasn’t enough.

And so he started to push his hips up in tandem with the Host’s hand. It was clumsy, but he tried his best; it wasn’t easy to multitask with his hand in the warm guts. It was... getting better. Everytime the ridged texture of the Host’s cock rubbed right below the tip, he was... was... god, he had no words. Tension built up in him, so tight and tingly it made his breath hitch. He swallowed back a moan. Marshmallow kept his eyes on their ’collaboration’. He was leaking precum all over both of them. It was nothing compared to the Host - so copious, hot, green mixing with Monk’s pearl white. Trickling out between the mushy fingers. For a moment he pondered the contrast of their colors. Red against white. Pretty. What if, he thought, what if it was.. 

Green against white. A crescent smile above beaming down on him, handsome and unnatural at the same time. Not an inch of ruined skin in sight, only—

Marshmallow shook his head. Don’t. Those were dangerous thoughts to indulge in.

There was a shift in the weight holding him down. 

The Host adjusted his position on Monk, his strokes and thrusts growing in force, thighs pressed together to keep Marshmallow in place. The static in his breathing was so noticeable now, almost drowning out the sound of their act. Tense shoulders. The hand - well, just the palm now - resting on Marshmallow’s shoulder tightened its grip. More and more. But there was only so much a hand in such an unstable state could handle. Marshmallow looked at the quivering appendage. ’Wrong’ was the perfect way to describe it. Palm bent in the middle. Skin bubbling and frothing. Knuckles - actual knucklebones - forced up through the mass. 

And then it happened. The abused hand hit its limit, breaking down into a puree of flesh and and fat and bones. A fine mess smeared over Marsmallow’s shoulder, dripping down the robe. Eugh. He’d have to scrape that off later. He averted his eyes, but he could still see the smush from the corner of his eye. Lovely.

The Host paused for the shortest moment to stare at the bloody stump left in the hand’s wake. A quick turn of head here and there, aimed down. Marshmallow wasn’t exactly sure what the Host was doing. But the man seemed... alarmed over something. Did the sorry state of his body finally hit him? Maybe. He didn’t know, but it certainly kicked the Host back into motion.

The Host’s grip on their lengths grew almost painful; Marshmallow didn’t want to admit that he found pleasure in that. The movements were frantic, occasionally falling out of rhythm, but Monk was there to fill the gaps of each missed thrust. It was so good. There was nothing to worry about. For now, all that mattered to him was the Host’s skilled hand and the way guts and flesh latched onto the hand inside the man. Like the innards wanted more from him, wanted his fingers tangled in them. 

His nails ripped into something tender and squishy and the Host’s head cracked to the side in a way that shouldn’t be possible before it corrected itself. It wasn’t Marshmallow’s fault. The guts were begging for it, so why wouldn’t he oblige?

...There was nothing wrong with relishing it.

Flesh was crackling everywhere on the Host as he pressed back against each plunge of Marshmallow’s hand into his stirred intestines. The heat burning inside the Host rose; light wisps of steam danced around the gaping wounds.

”I wonder, little contestant,” the Host’s thumb playfully flicked at his own precum,”had I been the one on the tracks, or one of the guests at your, your... y’know...”

The party.

”I could say the word is on the tip of my tongue, but would you look at that, I haven’t got one anymore!”

Marshmallow didn’t dare to laugh.

”Bu-uu—t I digress. Anyway, had I been one of them, what would you have done?” melting skin dangled off the Host’s face in goopy strings, their volume growing as more of the flesh dissolved. His head was losing shape, slowly but surely; the ears had liquified a while ago.

”Would you have strangled me? Or maybe, with that knife of yours,” you could have done—!”

The messy stump of his limb poked right at Marshmallow’s chest. ”This, this, this and this...!” each word was punctuated with a firm jab, and the last word melted into a hiss.

Marshmallow Monk couldn’t answer and it didn’t seem like the Host was expecting him to, either. He was too focused on stroking them off, little content noises slipping out of the face hole. Marshmallow bit his lip, blood roaring in ears. Sure, he was getting closer to hitting his climax. But the Host... somehow felt like he was getting too into it. Like it went beyond whatever mind game it was he was playing. Like this wasn’t just about getting Marshmallow to ’close his eyes’ or something like that.

It was like he was after his own satisfaction as well, willing to let his body fall apart for it.

There was something human about it. It was... it... 

”...?”

His legs felt off. He could barely move them, as if they were encased in warm, thick sludge. What the—

God. The Host’s legs. The degeneration gnawed on them with all its might, doing its best to dissolve the limbs into soft and frail matter. So soft, in fact, that they hadn’t been able to stay firm against Marshmallow’s legs. They had burst under the pressure like overripe fruit squashed under a heel; Marshmallow’s legs had sunk into the resulting stew of foul gore. Hot and pulsating. Curling around him like he was prey. Marshmallow nearly gagged.

Then there was a twitch in the organ his busy hand was buried in. It melted in the blink of an eye, its remains slipping past Marshmallow’s fingers, splashing against the guts below. Confusion mixed with his arousal. What was that? He located the next organ as the Host struggled with rutting against him. Maybe it—

Glurp. A rapidly expanding and contracting organ ruptured at the softest touch of his fingers. A lung - at least he thought it was a lung - tore into slimy shreds in response to a soft stroke.

It didn’t affect the Host’s (already static-y and crackling) breathing.

The Host was falling apart from the inside at an accelerating rate. ’Maybe this was it, the man’s going to die soon, right?’, his rational side suggested. Maybe. Marshmallow Monk should’ve been happy, but truth to be told, this was going faster than he had expected. He had nothing against another chance at escape, that’s what he had wanted from the beginning, but, he hadn’t even come yet. He was aware it was a stupid reason to be upset, but he was getting too-

Splat-!

It took him a second to comprehend what happened. The Host’s face cavity had latched onto the side of Marshmallow’s head. It was a perfect fit; as if he’d been carved out with Monk’s shape in mind. Marshmallow kept his head still, eyes wide from surprise, heart pounding from the uncertainty of what was coming next.

The hungry melting maw sucked and lapped on the skin as something wet and squirming - a tongue? - rubbed up and down the side, coating it in fluids while the Host kept up the steady flicks of the wrist. Like a mockery of a kiss; the best the Host could do without a mouth. The part of his head that was trapped inside the cavity that was so intent on tasting and licking him was hot and moist, almost unbearably so. And his ear, god, it was stuck in there too, forced to listen to the pounding of his own heart, rushing of his blood, sucking, scraping, pleading, accusations, screaming, whispers, hopeless cries. He didn’t want to hear any more of it, didn’t want to know where it was coming from, he just wanted to come and be done with it.

Amidst the torrent of unpleasant noises - stop - were something blunt, numerous of them, in curled rows, sinking into his skin. Teeth? They can’t be, please, no...! Stetchy flesh squeaked between the harsh press of the teeth; had Marshmallow been human, his head would’ve already given in under the strain, letting the fine ivories peel skin in thin strips like a shredder. But no matter how weird his own physiology was, his skin would eventually relent, and then—

He hissed at the pain blossoming under the merciless instruments, trying to move away from them, pushing at the Host who wasn’t budging. Please...! This couldn’t be the final step in whatever the Host had in mind for him. He wasn’t going to die here. Panic took hold of Marshmallow’s limbs, about to drive his fingers into the back of the Host’s skull which would hopefully be as soft as the rest of him to, to tear out... tear out his...

Suddenly the death grip on his head eased and the cacophony of sounds withered away one sound at a time, leaving behind only Marshmallow’s own frantic heartbeat.

The hand wrapped around him and the Host ceased its stroking, fingers twitching at an irregular beat, refusing to close again.

”...?”

The Host was still, and for a moment Marshmallow thought the man was near death when his head was practically spat out of the Host’s facial crater like he was a meal deemed unfit for consumption. He didn’t want to know what the side of his head had been lathered with, nor did he have the time to guess.

He was too distracted by the figure occupying his lap, the one that used to house the intimidating and teasing soul of his reaper. Marshmallow Monk wasn’t sure when it had happened, but he felt like there was nobody ’home’ now, a reasoning he couldn’t explain. What was left behind was a being whose ’stare’ he couldn’t comprehend, a being who mirrored each tilt of his head like he was Marshmallow’s reflection. Neither of them spoke a word. He wanted the Host to tease him again, hell, even a questionnaire would be welcome; a silent Host was something that set off more alarm bells in his head than the regular one.

A whine - a honest to god, actual frustrated whine - snapped him out of his thoughts, bringing him back to the reality where the remains of the Host struggled with his hand that refused to co-operate. There was a visible shake to the appendage, a real effort to curl up his digits around their lengths again, but to no avail. 

He could help out, Marshmallow figured, although he was doubting whether his small fingers could wrap around them both. A small part of him expected the Host to lash out, to rip his face into shreds with his teeth. The touch of his fingers against the Host’s was a favorable gesture based on a happy purr (a ghastly rendition of one), leading to the man trying to get a grip of Marshmallow’s hand. No such luck; another whine. The Host kept on trying, over and over again, almost growling at the effort when he suddenly stopped. He looked at Monk, then his hand, downwards, back to the hand, and Marshmallow could almost hear the gears in his head turning. It was as if the Host had realized that there was another person right there, with working hands, someone who could help him out.

Letting out a pleading noise, the Host began tapping and bumping at Marshmallow’s hand with his own, and it took Marshmallow a moment to understand that he was trying to guide him. He was led away from the Host’s length, encouraged to take his own cock into his hand, followed by fumbling and shifting, with occasional clumsy tumble of his limbs against the Monk’s. The Host wrenched himself up as far as his melting legs had allowed, hissing his frustration before reaching a satisfying position, right above Monk’s dick. He, he was...

”...!”

Marshmallow Monk could tell that the entity before him was one that had lost its capability for rational thinking, an animal in the form of a man, now relying on basic instincts which had led him pressing against Monk, wordlessly begging him to just stick it in. A small part of Marshmallow knew he shouldn’t allow it, the consequences could be bad.

But... what he had here, right on his lap, was what used to be a cryptic being that was obviously smarter than him. Someone who loved teasing him and talking about things Marshmallow didn’t know how to comprehend. Someone who asked questions that Monk didn’t have clear answer to, but who seemed to already know all the answers. Did he knew why he’d done it all? Not really. Did his long, absurd journey give him clues? Yes, he was sure of of it, but he just... didn’t understand.

It was frustrating.

So having that same man stripped from his intelligent thought, reduced to following his needs, just pleading to have Marshmallow’s dick in him, out of all the things it could crave for?

It was very satisfying. Was it sick to feel that way? Yes, but he wasn’t going to give it any more thought right now.

The Host began forcing himself down, limbs trembling, and Marshmallow just watched, captivated, as the tip of dick vanished into the Host, pushing into something warm and t—

With a hiss, the man pulled off right away, shifted around, and tried again, and Marshmallow Monk was slipping into an even tight-

A quick pull out and several more attempts at taking him in. That one felt loose, that one tight, that one just weird, that one... it took Marshmallow a while before he realized that he’d apparently been in many, many wrong holes (don’t think too much about it) before the Host picked the right one (maybe). Marshmallow bit his lip, pulling his hand away as the Host sunk further down on him, slowly enveloping him in constricting warmth that was even better than the sensation around the arm still in the Host. It was so hot inside; it felt like he was going to melt as well, like he was going to be a part of the Host and die together as one being with him. 

When there was nothing more to take in, the beast of a man gave a low, happy growl, hips nudging down at a slow pace as if to test the durability of his body. Seemingly content that his lower body hadn’t been smashed into fine paste just from taking Marshmallow Monk inside, the moves became more excited, his maimed hand and stub trying to find purchase on the smaller being’s shoulders to steady himself with each lift and push.

God, how much he wanted to thrust up into that hideous body riding him, to meet up with each slide down, relishing all of it. But with his legs buried in the pile of pulsating gore, what was he going to do? Nothing. All he could do was lie there as his dick was - ah! - used like an organic sex toy - not that he minded. Each moan, each whine his dick was forcing out of the Host hit him hard in every way, contributing to that wonderful tightening below his spine, making him whine in return and crave for something more that he wasn’t able to put into coherent words. If he couldn’t move his hips, then he’d contribute in other ways to make that creature fall apart even more - figuratively and physically.

Marshmallow was retracting his hand from the warm guts when the Host came to a halt, ’eyes’ locked onto Monk’s arm, tilting his head in a curious manner. The melting man let his body slide forward, forcing Monk’s hand to plunge elbow deep into the smush of meat and bones with a wet shlurp. Back and forth, he began fucking his waist cavity with Marshmallow’s fist, each push in pressing out pureed flesh glimmering with internal juices through the gap between the hole and the arm. Marshmallow squeaked, eyes going wide at the sight - it was obscene and gross, but oh so arousing, making his dick twitch inside the Host, who paused again at the feeling. 

The Host looked down, realizing what he was doing before the wound fucking, and then attempted to ride Marshmallow while still using Monk’s hand. But it was hard and clumsy to multitask in his current state, a frustrated growl vibrating in his throat. He pulled off up to the wrist, considering the two actions. Deciding that Marshmallow’s dick was a bigger source of pleasure, but that he still wanted more of what Monk’s hand was providing him with, he tried guiding him again. Oozing stump was pushing down on Marshmallow’s wrist, head nudging towards the same direction, silently begging him to rip in, tear him up more. 

That’s how Marshmallow understood the gesture.

Marshmallow wrenched his hand down with all the force the little limb could muster, wrist cutting through layers of flesh and fat until he came to a stop in another hole where the pelvis should’ve been but wasn’t, connecting the meaty ’dots’. A slurry of viscera splorted out of the gap in the wrist’s wake, splashing over Monk, over the Host, over everything, hot and heavy. The Host mewled at the sensation, at having his violated organs seeping out of his body, renewing his steady rise and fall on Marshmallow’s dick. 

Each slide, each push and grind onto him was bringing Marshmallow closer to his climax, but it never came. He was teetering on the edge, unable to go on, his body stuck in the torturous phase of being so tense and sensitive. The Host put more force behind each slam forwards, the tip of Monk’s dick ramming and rubbing all the right spots that made the man moan without shame, drool and blood oozing from the face hole. 

Marshmallow wanted to come so bad, please, god, just let him come. It wasn’t normal - the Host was motioning at his hand again - he should’ve come already. The tingling below that was satisfying at first was starting to get too much. Was... was the Host somehow... no, that’d be too ridiculous, there was no way he’d be able to control that, especially in that state. He was just...

The Host was looking straight at him in the middle of the thrusts. Like he knew what the Marshmallow was thinking. There was no face, sure, but somehow Marshmallow was still able to see an expression there, crystal clear and frustrating. No teeth, no eyes, no mouth. Yet there was a grin there, formed from the tiniest amount of the Host left somewhere deep inside, teasing and challenging him. A look that told Monk, ’you’re not coming before I do. What’re you gonna do about it~?”

If that’s the way he wanted to play, then oh, he knew what to do.

He was going to give him exactly what he wanted, and more. Marshmallow Monk withdrew his hand to clutch the corner of the skin he’d just ripped, both of his hands gripping tight, fingers puncturing it with ease. With a shout, he yanked back with all his strength. Skin came tearing off in a one big sheet of gnarled flesh with a wet, sickening sound. Thin strings of flesh snapped in rows as each of them failed to hold on to rest of the body, unable to stop Marshmallow from skinning the Host up to the bottom of his chin and then discarding the soaked slice of skin.

There was a noticeable falter to the Host’s moves as the man tried to do keep on riding Monk. With nothing to hold it back anymore, a massive helping of organs, bones and flesh came spilling out of the exposed body of the Host, degenerated into a nasty stew. 

You wanted this, right?

Marshmallow dug into the mess, gouging out organic matter left and right, just carelessly tossing chunks and strips of viscera out of his lap. The Host was arching his back, head tilted as far as it could get as he vocalized his pleasure in the forms of static-y growls. His insides tightened around Marshmallow’s cock in a possessive manner, so hard that the Host couldn’t move either way. It was as if the body itself was so broken down it was afraid of the Host unmounting Monk before satisfying its cravings. 

The Host was having none of that, so he tried to yank himself up, but he couldn’t; he was running out of energy, and fast.

So once again it was time to whine and nod towards his limbs, a plea for Marshmallow to ease the weight on his body, to keep on dismembering him. It’s okay.

Marshmallow had already gone so far and his thoughts were painted with pleasure so painful, it was making his mind hazy. This wasn’t sane at all, and he knew it, but he was still taking hold of the Host’s arm. He just wanted to come, and if this was what was getting the Host off, then fine, so be it. The arm came ripping out of the socket in a single pull, spraying clear fluids over the Host’s side, and it was immediately swung aside to join the piles of the Host’s innards. It was so easy, and the weight wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. He felt like a big child taking apart a clay figure that had served its purpose and had nothing more to give. 

His tiny fingers pried into the remaining arm like a parasite and he kept on clawing, turning it into mush bit by bit, dismantling more of it in his way up. He was awful, as much of a beast as the beast swaying on his lap; he couldn’t stop. With a hiss, he smashed a fist right at the shoulder of the abused limb, each punch and strike gaining more power until the socket caved in, releasing its hold on the remaining arm. It quickly joined its twin in the hill of discarded meat.

The Host was out of balance, trying to keep his wobbling to minimum as sought for something to rest his weight against. 

There was no time to find him any, nor did Marshmallow want the entity to rest its mangled head in the crook of his neck; he envisioned the Host bursting up for good the second he placed his head down.

Crafty fingers scooped out the melted matter holding the Host’s thighs onto the lower legs in record time, severing their connections.

”...”

Thinking with his dick and anger clearly hadn’t been a smart idea: how could the Host move with missing and crudely amputated limbs?

He flexed his fingers, gaze alternating between them and the Host’s thighs. It was times like these that forced Marshmallow to confront the subject of his small size. The Host was so tall, so big compared to him before all this. An intimidating figure. But, with some of that reduced weight, would he be able to lift him?

Marshmallow didn’t think so, but fuck, he had to try anyway; his dick felt like it was about to break due to the unnaturally denied release.

Steady... steady... here we go. His hands slipped below to grab the Host by the ass - thankfully it wasn’t flesh jelly like the rest of him. Alright. Summoning all the power that he could scrape together from his small frame into his hands, he was preparing to hoist up the Host, right now—!

Splurt.

”...!”

Oh. Oh. This wasn’t bad. Quite manageable, actually. Sure, his fingers were trembling a little under the weight, but, looking at the Host he was holding suspended in midair, he felt like he could do this. The Host was already growling at him to go on, wiggling his leg stumps around. To think this is what he’d been reduced to, his little clay figure, unable to physically lash out, now dependant on Marshmallow...

...The little murderer liked it.

Marshmallow pushed right back into the oozing mess he had ripped himself out of when lifting the Host, still warm and tight despite the damage he’d inflicted, like the body was eager to cling onto him again. Once fully hilted, a simultaneous sigh came from both participants; they’d finally get to resume to act. Marshmallow allowed his hands to relax with each raise to let gravity do its trick, causing the Host slide back down. There was something about the way the Host tried to cling onto him with his stumps, drooling blood and various fluids as he fucked the hot body in his grasp. The man was mostly carved out, save for the lump of organs and flesh at the bottom of the big cavity. He wouldn’t outright call it ’pretty’, but it was captivating. 

His motions weren’t as fast as he’d hoped to be, making him curse his small stature. But the writhing living corpse in his grasp didn’t seem to mind - what Marshmallow lacked in strength, he compensated with shifting the angles and depth of his thrusts.

His mind was hazy from the lust; his escape plans were long forgotten as he plunged into the Host over and over again, relishing each moan and sob, each time his insides contracted around him, so needy. It felt so painful, but he had to endure it until the Host got what he wanted. Another shift and a thrust at a new angle sent the Host into a twitching fit, which would’ve been worrisome had it not been the Host he was fucking. The man got off on weird shit, so whatever he was hitting must’ve been extra good, making him determined to keep on aiming for it. 

The Host’s neglected cock was still leaking green at an inhuman rate (Marshmallow ignored the wisftful thought of stroking him). He didn’t need to be touched there; it seemed like getting his inside rammed was all he needed. The sounds pouring out of the Host at each pound of his prostate weren’t human, weren’t animal; they passed from one ear to another, but he couldn’t grasp them or even try to imitate them. He was listening to an otherwordly language that wasn’t even meant for him to hear or understand. It felt wrong in his ears, but the one good thing to come out of it was the Host’s reaction. Even though he’d regressed into that creature of simple needs, he seemed aware and embarrassed of the off sounds. Deep down he knew he shouldn’t be doing that, and not even latching onto the remains of his shoulder with his face hole could stifle those noises. 

Cute.

No, don’t think that way.

Based on the way the twitching was growing worse and more holes were eating their way into existence on his body, the Host was getting close. It was beginning to get more difficult to hold onto him; his fingers were sinking into the melting flesh. Come on, come already...! Marshmallow’s didn’t bother with lifting him as high as he could anymore; each raise was a fast, deep one. Whatever length of gut, if he even was enveloped in one, was in the process of breaking down, already seeping out of the hole around the Monk. 

The Host was raising his head with a shaky, weak motion, uncharacteristically silent. This must be it. The body in Marsmallow’s hold arched its back, head tilting up until it seemed like the neck was about to snap. Come on, just a little more...! With one last, deep shove inside, his dick was buried into something that turned into mush from the force. Wh—

The sound that violently tore out of the hole in the Host’s face as he came was the worst one Marshmallow had ever heard in his life. Microphone feedback straight from the depths of Hell tore into his ears, its torturous pitch throwing itself at the mirror on the wall to shatter it into countless shards. He was too stunned to move at first, just staying still from shock as one rope after another of the Host’s cum hit his face. 

”...!”

Finally springing into action, he tore his hands out of the man to slap them over his ears, a futile attempt to block the sound that felt like someone had taken a knife to the canals. His eyes were scrunched up tight. God, make it stop...!

And then, just like that, it was abruptly over. There was no pain, no sound, just the ringing of the feedback left behind in his ears. His eyes slowly fluttered open. The Host’s head remained tilted back as the man himself was twitching lightly, with Marshmallow’s cock still shoved deep inside him. The unbearable feeling down below was changing, and Marshmallow Monk knew what it meant. He whined; his arms were too sore to lift the Host up again to finish. How was he—

His eyes fixated onto the mass of viscera left in the body.

...Surely the Host wouldn’t mind it.

Marshmallow Monk’s hand penetrated the soft intestine sludge to wrap it around his own cock, jerking himself off with a bunch of the Host’s internal stuff. The man didn’t react to the abuse; he wasn’t even moving anymore. The flicks of Marshmallow’s wrist were quick, desperate, come on, he just wanted to come...! The tightening in his guts reached its peak, and the climax hit him like a train, forcing a loud moan from his throat. Each throb of his overworked cock sent cum splurting into the dying - dead? - man’s insides until he had nothing more to give.

”...Ah.”

That was— he had no words. He’d never felt this good in his life, at least physically; a satisfying haze shrouded his thoughts, wiping away all the negativity that still lingered around. His tongue flicked out to have a taste of the green cum dripping down his face. It held no flavor. When he thought about it, he couldn’t smell blood, or rot either. Huh. Well, for now, he could just lay there, completely spent, and bask in his afterglow. His limbs felt like jelly, but he didn’t mind. He felt safe for the first time since he—

Splat—!

The Host had fallen over, his upper body exploding into chunks of wet gore the second it made contact with Marshmallow Monk, coating him, the walls and the floor in his thick juices.

Marshmallow blinked. 

That certainly snapped him out of his afterglow, throwing him back into... into... this.

He was resting in the remains of a dead man. The Host was everywhere; all over him, around in him, and in his mouth. Hell, the icing on the cake was seeing his cock stick out of the pulverized corpse, his hand still around the soft length.

Marshmallow Monk was absolutely disgusting.

...But also tired. The recent events and his strong orgasm had drained him out of all his energy, and the Host’s remains doubled as a very nice (morbid) and warm blanket. A little shut eye right now sounded like the best option. 

He yawned, letting out a big content sigh as he got comfortable under the remains.

Sleep was quick to welcome him with open arms when he closed his eyes.

Right as the carefree world of dreams claimed him, he was vaguely aware of something taking a deep breath above him.

”...Murderer.”

——

”...”

Where—

”...?”

His eyes were slow to open, and it took him a while to take in his surroundings through a vision still blurred by dreams. How’d he get in a bathroom?

Then it all came rushing back to him, and he looked down at himself, his eyes wide from the lewd memories. He—

His robe was nice and clean, neatly tugged down to preserve his modesty. There was no blood, no fluids, no pieces of a dead gameshow host on him or anywhere near him. He patted his face: it was clean. The mirror on the wall was intact, too.

Did he... did he dream all that? No, it must’ve been real. There were still traces of pleasure lingering around his mind and body, and he - he patted the front of his robe just to make sure - hadn’t had a wet dream. And...

He bolted upright, his heart racing again, feeling cold dread settle in his stomach.

The Host. Where... where was he?

A pair of tall legs, clad in fine (clean) green pinstripe pants and well-polished shoes appeared in front of him.

He was too scared to look up at their owner.

There was an impressed whistle.

”Oh my, that may have got a bii-ii-t out of hand. But, that’s okay~”

Something shiny was dropped in front of him, giving off a tiny clink as it hit the floor. It was the bullet.

”I believe we left something unfinished back at the other room.”

——

Ending 3b/10  
”Don’t Fuck the Reaper”

——

”Welcome, ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! How y’all doing? Today, our exciting contestant is death-defying! Death row defying, that is! Ohohoho~”


End file.
